A mockingbird sang nonstop, sometimes making up his own phrases, sometimes mimicking a bluebird, sometimes mimicking a titmouse.

Perhaps our best birder poet, he has written memorably about chickadees, towhees, titmice, owls, great blue herons, pelicans, kingfishers, and many others, always effacing himself before the glory of the thing seen.

Surely there was gaiety in summer, but for now, gray titmice moved close to the ground, almost silent, probably killing the insects who only wanted to sleep until spring.